"Are there any strings to it?"
"None," responded the cashier promptly.
Without so much as glancing toward the widow, who had watched this move with a venomous suspicion, Bob went to Miss Chandler by the desk and took the papers from his pocket, and laid them before her.
"Indorse the compress receipts over to Mr. Crill."
Then he wrote two checks—one to the bank for $3,123 to pay off all the claims against the Chandler cotton and one to Imogene for $1,377.
"You don't know, Mr. Rogeen," she started to say in a low, tense voice as she took the check, "how much——"
"I don't need to," he smilingly interrupted her gratitude, "for it isn't my money. I'll see you at lunch; and then take you back home in my car." He lifted his hat and turned back to the counter where Mrs. Barnett stood loftily, disdainfully, yet furiously angry.
"Well," said Bob, casually, "I've made one loan, anyway."
"It will be your last." Mrs. Barnett clutched her hands vindictively. "You'll be discharged as quick as I get to Uncle Jim."
Bob really expected he would, but not for three jobs would he have recalled that loan and the light of relief in Imogene Chandler's eyes.